The Doctor's Day
by ValerianCorvidae
Summary: When Sherlock disappears, John must use everything he's learned to find him before it is too late.
1. Chapter 1

John Watson, doctor, soldier, blogger, and long-suffering lover of the world's only consulting detective, looked up from his computer to see the self-same detective emerging from their bedroom, fully dressed for the first time in three days.

"Do we have a case on?" John said, starting to rise. Three days of bored Sherlock was three days too many, especially if those days were leading up to today.

"No," was the response. "No, I've received an invitation. Apparently..." Sherlock sniffed slightly as he picked up his coat. "I have a fan. No, not that kind," he added quickly, seeing John's alarmed expression. "Someone who reads your blog. He's a doctor of abnormal psychology, made a study of the criminal mind, and wants my input on some of his research. He's invited me to his flat. It sounds... " Sherlock waved one hand languidly.

"Not boring?" John supplied. "Shall I come with you?" His mobile chose that moment to ring, and he looked down to see the number of the clinic on the screen. He frowned, thinking about not picking up.

"Go ahead. If they're calling you, they must be short-handed at the clinic," Sherlock said as he wrapped his scarf around his neck. "You were just saying that you wanted more hours, although I can't imagine why. You complain about them whenever you get home."

"I wasn't saying that. I was thinking it. And are you sure? Tonight..."

Sherlock smiled, a soft, true smile that John was certain only he ever got to see. "Be ready for six, and we'll have dinner at Angelo's. He's expecting us. Send a text at four, just in case, will you?"

John smiled and tipped his head back. "You didn't forget."

"You expected me to forget our anniversary?" Sherlock shook his head, his eyes sparkling. "For shame, John. As if I'd delete anything to do with you. Now, you should call Sarah back. I'll see you at dinner." He kissed John, light and lingering, then rushed out the door in a swirl of coat and scarf. John watched as the door banged shut, then picked up his mobile and called the clinic to tell Sarah that yes, he was available to work today. But he had to be out by four.

#

As he left the clinic, John made sure that he sent a text to Sherlock - _Four__o'clock__reminder.__See__you__at__home.__JW._ He rushed down into the Tube, and was home well before five, setting his mobile on the kitchen table and heading in to the shower. When he got out ten minutes later, the flat was still empty. Frowning, John checked his mobile - no texts, no messages. He sent another text - _On__your__way?__JW._

There was still no answering text from Sherlock when John was finished getting dressed. He settled on to the couch with the mobile in one hand, and sent another text.

_Where are you? JW._

_You're going to be late, you know. JW._

_It's coming on six. You'd better have a good reason for being late. JW._

_I've called Angelo and canceled. You're worrying me. Where are you? JW._

He sent a text every ten minutes until he fell asleep on the couch, well past midnight.

He woke up the next morning when the door banged open; jerking awake to see Lestrade coming inside. The DI looked at him strangely.

"Wasn't it your anniversary last night?" he asked.

John sniffed, rubbing his stiff neck. "I thought it was."

"Why are you on the couch?"

John blinked, looked down at his mobile, then back at Lestrade. "Because Sherlock went out yesterday and never came home. I've sent... I don't even know how many texts I've sent. He hasn't answered any of them. Greg, I think something happened."

"Don't jump to conclusions, John. You know how he is. Where did he go?" Lestrade asked. "Tea?"

"God, yes. Thank you. Ah..." John rubbed his face, trying to wake up enough to remember what Sherlock had told him the day before. "Someone contacted him. Doctor of... what was it? Oh, abnormal psychology. Wanted Sherlock's opinion on his research. He promised he'd leave at four, so he'd be home on time for dinner last night. I had to work yesterday. Sherlock even suggested it. I suppose he thought I'd be bored by talking about the criminal mind..."

"Criminal mind?" Greg interrupted. "Sherlock went to talk to someone about the criminal mind?"

"I did just say that, Inspector," John snapped.

"Sorry." Greg frowned, then cocked his head to one side. "Who was it?"

John shook his head. "He didn't say. He didn't say who he was going to see, or where he was going. All he said was that it was someone..." his voice trailed off, and he was off the couch and moving in an instant. "It was someone who follows my blog," he said over his shoulder. He sat down and opened his laptop, pulling up his blog.

"Checking the comments?" Greg asked, leaning over John's shoulder.

John nodded, typing quickly with two fingers. "Maybe whoever it was left a comment. I'll check Sherlock's site, too. And his email."

Greg snorted with amusement. "He gave you the password?"

John looked back over his shoulder. "Don't be daft."

"Then how... you _cracked_ his password?"

John shrugged again, "When you live with someone, as closely as we live together, it starts getting easier to see how they think. I've cracked his last three passwords. It annoys the hell out of him.."

"I can imagine," Greg murmured, moving away as the kettle started to scream. When he came back, he set a mug of tea down next to John's hand. "So?"

"Nothing in my blog. Nothing in his. I'll check his email. This doctor had to contact him somehow." He scowled at the screen, waiting as the site resolved and prompted him for the password. When the screen cleared and the emails were visible, he let out the breath he'd been holding. "He hasn't changed it as of yesterday."

"Well done, Doctor," Greg said appreciatively.

John just nodded, scanning the subject lines until he pointed. "There. That one." He clicked on it, reading through the back-and-forth until he found the information he was looking for. "Doctor Marcus Garrity. Lives in Holloway North. Carew Close," John said, closing the laptop and getting out of his chair in one smooth movement.

"Near Seven Sisters. I know the place. Right. Let's go." Greg said, only to find that he was talking to an empty room.

#

"So," John asked as Greg guided his car through London traffic. "What brought you over this morning?"

"I have a case. Missing persons," Greg answered without taking his eyes off the road. "I just wasn't expecting Sherlock to turn into one of them."

"He might have hared off on some case or other," John said. Greg glanced over and arched an eyebrow, and John sighed and nodded. "I know. I know! Maybe on any other day of the year. But not last night."

Greg was quiet for a moment, then asked, "Have you called Mycroft?"

"Haven't had a chance. Let's see what we find at Carew Close. He probably knows more than we do." John glanced over. "How are things...?"

"Uncertain," Greg answered sharply.

"Ah," John said. He nodded, then said softly. "Sorry."

"Not your fault. His work, my work. Things are... what they are," Greg answered. "Let's worry about your Holmes before we worry about mine, hm?"

A few minutes later, Greg pulled up in front of a run-down looking row of flats. "What number?" he asked.

"There. Second from the end," John answered, getting out of the car. He was halfway to the door when Greg caught up with him, and neither said anything as they walked up to the door. John grimaced slightly at the foul odor coming from the house, then rang the bell. After a moment, he heard a shuffling step on the other side of the door.

"Who is it?"

John looked at Greg, who shrugged and gestured. Right. He turned back to the door, "My name is John Watson. I'm..." he didn't have a chance to finish before the door opened, and he was faced with an older man wearing thick glasses.

"Doctor Watson?" he asked. "The blogger? For that detective?"

John smiled, trying not to flinch away from the heavy smell of ammonia that wafted out through the open door. "Yes. Are you Doctor Garrity? I understand you read my blog?"

"Yes, yes. Quite interesting, what you and that young detective get in to. Had a very interesting meeting with him yesterday. Very interesting. No, you silly thing. Stay inside," he said as he bent down to shoo a large, tortoiseshell cat back into the flat.

John scratched his ear and nodded. "Doctor Garrity, could you tell me what time Sherlock left?" he asked.

Doctor Garrity frowned, leaning down and picking up the cat. "Let me see... he was here... three? No, four hours or so. Left when he got a text. Said he had someplace to be."

" Thank you," John forced a smile, and nodded towards the cat. "Ah... are you a great cat fancier? I was thinking of getting one, myself."

"Oh, yes. Wonderful company for an old man. I have six." He nodded and smiled at Greg. "Oh, you didn't introduce your friend!"

Greg inclined his head and answered without smiling, "Detective Inspector Lestrade of the Met."

The older man's eyes went wide. "Oh. Oh, is there something wrong?"

"We're trying to find that out. Thank you. If you happen to see Mr. Holmes, would you contact us, please?" He passed a card to Doctor Garrity, and stepped back, obviously waiting for John to finish up.

"Thank you, Doctor Garrity," he said. He waited until the door closed, then turned away and walked back towards Greg's car. "He's lying," he muttered under his breath.

"Lying about what?"

"Sherlock did not spend three or four hours in that place. Not with six cats and that stench." John turned and looked at Greg. "I really was going to get a cat. I thought it would be a good thing, something to keep Sherlock from getting bored. Turns out, he's violently allergic. Can't be anywhere near a cat. He wouldn't have lasted ten minutes in there."

Greg turned and stared at the flat. "So he either never got here..."

"Or he never left," John finished. He turned around, searching with eyes narrowed, until he saw a CCTV camera. It was positioned pointing down the street, away from Garrity's door, and John swore creatively as he stalked over towards it, placing himself right in the camera's line of sight.

"Tell your boss that his brother is in trouble," he snapped. "Have him meet us at the flat."


	2. Chapter 2

(end part one)

#

When Greg pulled up in front of 221B Baker Street, there was a sleek, black car already parked. John simply nodded and got out, heading into the flat and taking the stairs two at a time. He wasn't surprised to see Mycroft sitting in John's usual chair. What did surprise him was the file.

"The cab driver that picked Sherlock up here dropped him at Carew Close at 11:45AM. We have proof of that on video," Mycroft said without preamble. He nodded as Lestrade came into the flat and continued without pause. "There is no record of any cab picking Sherlock up at any point thereafter. Why are you so certain that he never left the flat?"

John paused, just for a moment, trying to put into words something of which he was so certain. Then it hit him. "You're here. With a file. If I was wrong, you'd have sent a text, probably before Greg and I left,, telling me that Sherlock was fine and I wasn't to worry. Which means... oh, of course. Even if Sherlock could have functioned around six cats and he'd stayed until he'd gotten my text at four, he'd have left in a hurry. No time to call for a cab and wait, he'd have had to go out to the cross street to find a cab. Maybe even down to Seven Sisters. He'd have had to walk. But he never went past that camera, did he?"

Mycroft was nodding, a bemused look on his face. "Doctor, I find I must apologize. I continually make the mistake of underestimating you."

"Either that or Sherlock is rubbing off on him," Greg muttered.

"Regardless. The facts all agree. Sherlock arrived at Doctor Garrity's flat, and he did not leave." Mycroft opened the file and looked down at the papers. "Doctor Marcus Garrity. Researcher in abnormal psychology. Published several papers on the variations in the physiognomy of the deviant mind..."

"Wait a moment," Lestrade interrupted. "Papers on how the criminal mind is different from... "

"From the non-criminal mind. Yes. Is this important, Gregory?"

Lestrade folded his arms over his chest, frowning, "Might be. John, that missing persons case I wanted to talk about?"

John closed his eyes, "Let me guess? All criminals?"

"Seven of them," Lestrade answered, his voice grim. " And it's the only connection that we could find - they were all convicted of a violent crime. That's why I brought it to Sherlock. I thought there was something I was missing."

"You shouldn't second-guess yourself, Gregory," Mycroft said. "You're much smarter than you give yourself credit for." He pulled his mobile out and started typing furiously, then looked up. "A moment, while I find out if there is another connection. When you go back to the flat, John, I will not be able to accompany you."

"Why... oh. Never mind. Same allergy?"

"Unfortunately, yes. Six cats?" Mycroft shook his head. "There is no possible way that Sherlock could have stayed in that house for four hours."

"And we know that he got there," Lestrade muttered. He pulled out his mobile and stepped out into the hall, and John took a moment to rub his face and try not to think.

"You are doing very well, Doctor. My brother is rubbing off on you, as the Detective Inspector says." Mycroft said softly. "We will find him."

John nodded. "I'm just worried at what shape we'll find him in when we do find him." He glanced at his watch and grimaced. "Twenty-four hours, almost. A lot can happen in twenty-four hours."

Lestrade poked his head back inside, "I've called this in. Sergeant Donovan will be meeting us there. Come on, John."

John nodded and glanced at Mycroft, who was frowning at his mobile. "We have another connection," he announced. "Doctor Garrity was a consultant for the prosecution during the trials of all seven of the missing."

#

By the time John and Greg arrived at Carew Close, the street was cordoned off. Sally Donovan met them as the passed under the tape.

"There appears to be no one home," she said as they walked towards Garrity's door. "No answer when we knock. Not that anyone wants to get too close to that door, what with the smell. What do we know?"

"Sherlock arrived here yesterday morning and hasn't been seen since," Greg answered. "We have good reason to believe he was lured here under false pretenses, and that Doctor Garrity is lying when he says that Sherlock left at four. And there is a possibility that this may tie in to that missing persons case."

Sally stopped in her tracks. "The Freak is involved? Why am I not surprised?"

John wheeled on her. "What, are you five?" he demanded. "I know he's hard to deal with. Believe me, I know that. But honestly, he's done more for your department then most of your regular officers. When are you going to fucking grow up? For all we know, he is dead in there." He stalked off towards the house, leaving Greg and an ashen-faced Sally behind him.

"Don't you think that was a bit uncalled for?" a smooth voice said.

"Mycroft, it might not be the best idea for you to sneak up behind me right now," John snapped. He turned, folding his arms over his chest. "And what are you doing here, then?"

"Regardless of what my brother thinks, I do care about his welfare," Mycroft answered coolly, John grimaced, sighed and nodded.

"Right. Right. I'm sorry. That... that was uncalled for. What I said to Sally..."

"Was completely right," Sally said quietly. "And I apologize. Old habits, you know?" John turned to see her stand a few feet away, looking nervous. "He's rubbed me the wrong way for a long time. But the past year, he's changed. And I should... I should grow up. You're right. So, we're going in. Coming or staying?"

"You even need to ask?" John fell in next to her as they walked towards the door, leaving Mycroft behind. Greg met them at the door, and nodded to the officers gathered there, just out of range of the smell.. "I have the warrant. Break it down."

As soon as the order was given, the officers went to work, and soon the door was swinging open wide. As soon as the door opened, the tortoiseshell cat that John has seen earlier shot outside and disappeared down the street. John had to hold himself back to keep from running inside ahead of the police. Two officers reappeared almost immediately, sneezing and coughing.

"It's horrible in there," one of them gasped.

Greg rested his hand on John's shoulder. "Give them a minute to make sure its clear. Then we'll go in."

John nodded, trying not to scream. Sally nudged him with her elbow.

"You allergic?" she asked. "I have something, if you are."

"Me? Not a bit," John answered, never turning away from the door. "Sherlock, on the other hand..."

"Clear!" someone inside shouted. "There's no one in here!"

"Let's go," Greg said, leading the way. John followed close behind, ignoring the smell as he passed from room to room, searching. Sitting room, kitchen, dining room, what looked like a small lab...

"Doctor?" It was Sally, calling from somewhere upstairs. There was an odd note to her voice. "You might want to see this."

John hurried towards her voice, meeting Greg on the stairs. Sally met them outside a partially-open door. "You were right, Doctor," she said. "He was lured here. Take a look."

John brushed past her and opened the door, walking into a bedroom that looked as if it had been ransacked. Open drawers were on the unmade bed and on the floor, and clothes were everywhere.

"We set him off," Greg said. "He's run for it."

"Tell Mycroft. He won't get far," John said. He turned and was about to ask Sally what she had wanted him to see when she pointed at an inner door. John nodded and opened the door, revealing a small room. In the doorway, he just stopped and stared, completely speechless. The walls were papered with what he recognized as print-outs from his own blog and from Sherlock's website. Mixed in were photographs of Sherlock, photographs that John didn't recognize. Worst of all, laying across the single table against the wall was Sherlock's scarf, pinned to the tabletop with a large knife.

"My God," Greg breathed.

"A... stalker?" John stammered. "Sherlock has a stalker?"


	3. Chapter 3

They searched, trying to find any other signs that Sherlock had ever been in the house. It was Anderson who found the coat, hanging behind the door in the lab that John had noticed earlier. John went into the pocket and found Sherlock's mobile, the battery drained. He looked at Greg, who shook his head, then turned around and announced. "Everyone out. Let forensics do their work."

John nodded, looking over at Anderson. "If you... find anything..."

"I'll come get you," Anderson said. "Go on. You're in my way." He smiled slightly, as if to soften the sharp words, then turned away and pulled bright blue nitrile gloves from his pocket. "I'm bagging the coat for evidence," he called over his shoulder.

"Yeah, well, you get to explain that to Sherlock," John called back.

Anderson's grin was real this time, and as close to impish as John had ever seen. "I'm looking forward to it."

"Come on," Greg urged gently. "Let's go bring Mycroft up to speed. I have some questions for him."

The walked out of the house and towards the car, only to see Mycroft walking towards them, a handkerchief in his hand, and accompanied by Sergeant Donovan. "Where are you going?" Greg asked.

"Inside. I want to see this... shrine, and the Sergeant has offered to accompany me."

"Wait. Before you go anywhere, Mycroft," Greg held his hand up as he spoke, as if to bar Mycroft's way. "I know you've looked. Is this doctor connected to that bomber? What was his name? Moriarity?"

"No," John and Mycroft answered, almost at the same time. They looked at each other, and Mycroft looked amused.

"Now, I know how I know. But how do you know?" he asked.

"Because he went after Sherlock directly," John answered. " Moriarity, where-ever he is, wouldn't attack Sherlock directly. He made that mistake already. No, he'd target me again. Or you, Mycroft. Assuming he could get to you." He shook his head. "No, this is something else. Now, Mycroft, how bad is your allergy? Compared to Sherlock's?"

"There is no notable difference."

John nodded, thinking fast. "Sally, you said you had something?"

"I've already offered," she said. John folded his arms over his chest and looked up at Mycroft.

"And you didn't take it. Why not?"

Mycroft regarded him coolly. "It will hamper my abilities."

"Take the antihistamine, Mycroft. Then..." he glanced at his watch. "You have five minutes. Once you come out, if you've seen anything we need to know, you tell me and Greg. Then you are to go home and shower. All of your clothes go in a sealed bag to be cleaned..."

"Don't you think that a bit extreme, Doctor?" Mycroft snapped.

"We're going to need you. And we're going to need you without your head fogged from allergies or antihistamines. Besides that, the last time we had to deal with a cat infestation, Sherlock damn near stopped breath..." John stopped, his eyes going wide. He turned and looked back at the house. "Cellar. Greg, did you see a cellar?"

"I didn't. Sally?"

Sally shook her head, her curls bouncing. "No. There's no door that we didn't open. I didn't think there was a cellar. Why?"

"This style of house always has a cellar. Always," John said.

"And idiots put bodies in the cellar," Greg was already running back towards the house. John followed, and to his surprise, so did Mycroft. At the door, the three men almost bowled over Anderson, who was coming outside.

"I found something," he said once he'd recovered. "You're not going to like it." He passed several evidence bags to Greg, who looked at each one before passing them to John. John held up the first and murmured, "Oh, fuck."

"Doctor?"

"Barbiturates. These are usually injected. Were there syringes?" he asked, looking at Anderson.

"Other bag. Used syringes, one of which has traces of blood inside. If that isn't the same drug in there, and Sherlock's blood, I'll eat my microscope. There's an entire pharmacopeia in there, Doctor. Including some things that I've never heard of. And some old favorites, like chloroform," Anderson said. "Take a look at that last bag."

The bag held papers, and John held them up to read, feeling Mycroft moving in behind him to read over his shoulder. It appeared to be an experiment log of some kind:

_Subject__number__11/12/2011_

_Subject:__Male_

_Age:__Approximately__37__years._

_Height:__Approximately__1.9__metres_

_Weight:__Undetermined._

_Subject__appears__to__be__in__excellent__health.__Heart__rate__and__respiration__within__normal__parameters._

_Subject__displays__all__classic__signs__of__psychopathy._

The report went on at length, describing the subject, making diagnoses and drawing parallels to similar cases marked with similar subject numbers. John frowned, reading through it once more.

"Sherlock?" he asked over his shoulder.

"Undoubtedly," Mycroft answered.

#

… _where...__can't__see...__what__happened...can't...can't__remember...can't__think...__sick...__am__I__sick?...__if__I'm__sick,__John__will__make__it__right...__where__is__John?..._

_...can't__move...__can't...__help..._


	4. Chapter 4

John nodded over the papers, his eye drawn back to the subject number. Something...

"That's yesterday's date," he said. "The subject numbers here. These are all dates. Greg, that missing persons case? What dates did those others disappear?" He passed the report to Greg, pointing out the other subject numbers.

"I'll have someone cross-reference these subject numbers with what we know on the missing persons files. Was this the only report, Anderson?" Greg asked without looking up.

"Only one we've found so far," Anderson answered. If he was going to say anything more, it was drowned out by an abrupt sneeze from Mycroft. John looked at him - Mycroft's eyes were bloodshot.

"Right. If we're going to look around, we need to do it now," Greg said. "Sally, you stay with Mister Holmes. John..."

John was already moving, remembering the layout of the flat where he'd grown up. The cellar had been off the kitchen, the door usually on the wall away from the windows overlooking the tiny patch of yard in the back of the house. But when he reached the kitchen, the only thing on that wall was the refrigerator.

"Did anyone move this?" he called, peering behind the machine.

"Not that I know of," Greg answered. "We can see behind it, John. There's no door."

John nodded, looking around again. "Right. No door. But there has to be a cellar. Where... Greg, is that a winch on the ceiling?"

"What?" Greg came over and looked up, then pulled out a pocket torch and used it to illuminate what was indeed a small winch dangling over their heads. "Why would he have a winch there?" He looked at John, and they both looked down at the floor. The tile under their feet was tattered and dirty, peeling at the corners. Without a word, they both knelt down, pulling at the tiles until they had revealed a trap door. Greg had to stand on a chair to reach the cable, and it took some searching to find the controls for the winch, but in a few minutes, they were swinging the trap door over to rest on the top of the refrigerator. John knelt next to the opening, and felt himself go cold at the smell rising from the darkness.

"Oh, dear God," Lestrade murmured.

"Idiots put bodies in the cellar," John repeated. He swallowed and looked up. "Get Mycroft. And some torches."

"Why do you need to get Mycroft?" Mycroft asked as he came into the kitchen, his voice nasal. "Oh. Nicely done, Doctor."

"That explains why he lived like this," Greg said. "The smell of the cats covers the smell of the bodies. Good thing you can't smell anything, My."

Sally arrived with torches, which revealed a ladder that led down into the cellar. Greg insisted on going first, and it was he who found the light-switch. John followed him, looking around at the large, empty space, and at the seven bodies laying in two rows. Slowly, feeling as if he were walking through treacle, John walked up one row and down the other. Sherlock wasn't here. Relieved, he returned to the ladder and watched as Anderson and his team moved towards the bodies.

"He's not here," he said quietly to Mycroft, and saw the taller man nod. "You should get out of here. Go get the antihistamines from Sally."

"No. Not yet. There is something..." Mycroft frowned, shaking his head. Then he sneezed violently, three times in a row. "Ah..."

"Mycroft, you're not going to be able to help until you get taken care of," John insisted. "Right now, I doubt you can see straight, let alone see what we're missing."

"Inspector?" John turned when he heard the odd note in Anderson's voice. The man was kneeling next to one of the bodies. "This..."

'What is it, Anderson?" Greg asked.

"This body... the brains are gone," Anderson answered. "The top of the head has been removed, and the brains are missing."

John fought back a surge of hysteria, thinking back to an old movie that involved screw-top heads. "I think that answers how Doctor Garrity was doing his research," he said. "How long has this been going on, I wonder?"

"And who were the controls?" Mycroft added. John winced, walking away and slowly pacing down the line of bodies once more. His footsteps echoed in the long, enclosed space. Halfway down the length, he stopped and looked back.

"Is it just me, or is this cellar enormous?" he asked out loud. His only answer was a sneeze from Mycroft. Scowling, he turned towards Mycroft, thinking to order the man out of the cat-infested house again. Then he stopped and looked around the cellar again. "Oh. Oh! Oh, you brilliant idiot. Mycroft, who owns the flat next door? The one on the end?"

Mycroft's jaw dropped, and for a moment, the resemblance to Sherlock was unmistakable. "Doctor! That's it!"

"What? What's it?" Greg demanded.

"Look, Greg!" John pointed towards the far wall. "How far away is that wall?"

Greg turned and frowned. "Twelve... maybe fifteen meters... the flat isn't that wide!"

"This cellar runs under both flats! I've heard of garrets like this, but never a cellar," John turned towards Mycroft, who was blinking and frowning over his mobile.

"Owner of record... Felicia Garrity-Hanson. Deceased," he said after a moment. "She and her mother were murdered by Gerrold Hanson, Felicia's husband."

"Doctor Garrity's daughter? And his wife?" John asked. Mycroft nodded before continuing.

"And naturally, when the daughter died, and the son-in-law went to prison, the flat went to the only living relative. Doctor?"

"We need to get in there. He hid the bodies here, but he did... whatever he did there. And that is where Sherlock is," John said, already moving towards the stairs on the far wall.

#

_...restraints...__can't__move...__can't__see...__can't__think...hurts,__everything__hurts...__shaking...__cold?__No,__not__cold...__sick...John...__John,__where__are__you?...__help__me..._


	5. Chapter 5

They came up out of the cellar into a spotless kitchen. John took a deep breath, and smelled only the remains of industrial cleaners.

"He never had the cats over here, that's for certain," John muttered as he looked around. The kitchen was set up in a way that reminded him of the morgue at St. Barts, and he pushed that thought away and turned to face Greg.

"Word of warning. I am going to turn this place inside out until I find him."

Greg made an expansive gesture. "Be my guest."

That was all John needed to hear. "Sherlock!" he roared at the top of his lungs. "Sherlock, can you hear me? We're coming!"

"He may not be in any shape to answer you," Greg said. John ignored him, brushing past him and heading for the stairs; he ran up them two at a time, hearing footsteps behind him as Mycroft followed him. At the top of the stairs, he gestured to the left - Mycroft nodded and started on the doors at that end of the hall. John went right, throwing doors open and shouting Sherlock's name.

"John, here!" Mycroft called. John turned and sprinted to where Mycroft was standing. "It's locked."

John nodded and looked up at Mycroft. "Ever break down a door?" he asked.

"There's a first time for everything," Mycroft answered.

John grinned and pressed his shoulder against the door, feeling Mycroft moving into position behind him. "On three. One... two..."

John's shoulder was screaming in pain when the door finally splintered and gave way, and Mycroft had to catch him or he'd have fallen. Because of that, the first thing that John actually saw was the hair - black curls scattered like fallen leaves over the floor. He stared, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

"Good God," Mycroft breathed. A Holmes invoking Deity was enough to shock John out of his stupor, and he finally saw the rest of the room... and the violently shaking, gagged and blindfolded figure laying strapped to a surgical table in the middle of the room, an intravenous needle in one pale arm.

"Sherlock!" he breathed, pushing off Mycroft and hitting the edge of the table. "Dim the lights, Mycroft. No telling how long he's been like this." As the lights went off, John fumbled at the blindfold, pulling it off and letting it fall, relieved to see Sherlock's eyes open slightly, then close again. The gag was next, and John leaned down and kissed Sherlock gently. "We're here now," he murmured. "You're safe."

"... knew... knew you'd come..."

John smiled and started pulling at restraints, then stopped. "Mycroft, what's in that IV. Can you read the bag?"

Mycroft peered at the bag, "It's empty."

"I saw that, Mycroft. Read the damn label! I need to know what that bastard gave him!"

"Chlorpromazine hydrochloride," Mycroft said after a moment. "Isn't that...?"

"Largactil. Which means... oh, fuck," John muttered. "We need an ambulance, Mycroft. We need to get him to a hospital."

"What's happening?" Mycroft asked. "He's never had seizures before." He started working on the restraints at Sherlock's ankles. "What do I do, Doctor?"

"What is happening is generalized dystonia, probably caused by the Largactil. At least, that's what I hope it is. Sherlock, keep your eyes closed. I need to draw that needle. Mycroft, the lights." The lights came back up, and John gently peeled back the tape holding the needle in place, pulling it from Sherlock's arm and letting it swing free. "All right. Sherlock, we're going to unstrap you and bring you down to the floor. Understand?"

"... yes."

"Mycroft?"

"Of course," he answered. They quickly released the restraints and belts holding Sherlock down; it took both men to lift Sherlock from the table and lower him to the floor, where John sat with Sherlock leaning against him, holding him with one arm around his chest and gently stroking the soft fuzz that was all that was left of Sherlock's hair. Mycroft draped his jacket over his brother's torso, then stepped back.

"Mycroft! John!" They heard Greg shouting. "Did you find him?" He appeared in the door, and his eyes went wide.

"We need..."

"An ambulance. I thought we might, so its on the way. What happened?"

"I don't think we'll know that until Sherlock can tell us," Mycroft answered.

"I think we know what was going to happen, Greg," John said softly. "If we hadn't scared Garrity into running, he'd have taken Sherlock's brain, the same as those poor bastards in the cellar." He closed his eyes and shuddered. "And Sherlock probably would have been aware of the whole thing. Largactil is an anti-psychotic. Not a sedative. Well, not really a sedative. When you start giving it, the patient will sleep, but that doesn't last. Especially not at Sherlock's tolerances..."

"I think we get the point, Doctor," Greg interrupted. "Honestly, you're getting to be as bad as he is."

"And we're all grateful for it," Mycroft added.

#

Chairs in a hospital were always uncomfortable. At the moment, John didn't care. He slumped in his and ran his finger through his hair. Christ, he was tired.

"Mycroft?" he said. "Is it always like this for you? For him?"

"Hm? Oh, no. I believe you only had a taste of it."

"You mean it's worse? I feel... I wasn't ever this tired in combat."

"You're unused to it. But I think now you understand my brother a little more than you did. You did notice, did you not, that you did not eat or drink at all, the entire time you were... deducing?"

John looked up, startled. "Well... fuck."

Mycroft snorted, sounding amused. "You did remarkably well, Doctor," he said. "Well enough that I wonder what you could do with some... training."

"Training?" John echoed, and had one last deduction. "You want me to come work for you?"

Mycroft smiled. "Think on it. My brother will probably object..."

"And in other news, water is wet, fire is hot, and the Himalayas are very tall this time of year."

That drew a real laugh from Mycroft. "There is that. As I said, think on it. I've had them put an extra bed in the room. Once Sherlock has been brought in, you'll be able to get some rest. What do you want to eat?"

The mention of food was enough to set John's head to spinning. He gripped the sides of his chair and mumbled, "Right now, I'd even go for a ration pack."

He heard Mycroft step away and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. He couldn't sleep yet. Not until he saw Sherlock. Then, he'd sleep. For a week, if Sherlock's sleep patterns after a case were any indication. He felt a touch on his shoulder, and when he opened his eyes, Mycroft was standing over him.

"Your dinner is on its way. I'm afraid I have to go. There's a crisis..."

"I'll call you if anything. Go... save the world or something." John made tired shooing motions with one hand.

"Thank you, Doctor," Mycroft said, his voice low. John smiled and tipped his head back against the wall.

"You know I didn't do it for you."

"That does not mean I can't be grateful."

"You're welcome, Mycroft."

#

Ten minutes after Mycroft left, a man in a nondescript uniform delivered what had to have been the most luxurious take-away meal that John had ever eaten. He was just finishing when he saw Greg Lestrade coming down the hall.

"How is he?"

John shrugged. "They're transferring him from A&E. It's taking forever. No one has said anything for a while now. He was dehydrated, and once they started him on fluids, the drugs started to flush from his system, so the dystonia was starting to get less severe. Thank God. I was worried."

"Because he had the shakes?" Greg asked.

"Because in extreme cases, that could have been permanent," John said. "The official diagnosis is tardive dyskinesia, and permanent dystonia is a rare side-effect of high dosages of Largactil."

Greg whistled under his breath. "And, of course, Sherlock would go for the rare side-effect."

"Naturally. Now, we just need to see how long it takes to pass completely." John let out a long breath. "I don't know how he does it. He can do this for... days at a time. I'm knackered after... how long was it?"

"About four or five hours, I think?" Greg answered. "Want to hear the end of it, and what Anderson found?"

John licked his lips and looked over at the DI. "Do I want to know?"

"We know what he was doing with the brains."

"Oh, God." John closed his eyes. "Tell me he wasn't eating them? Please?" Silence, and he opened his eyes to see Greg staring at him.

"Two of him. Now I've got two of him. At least you're pleasant about it. Yes, from what Anderson can tell, Garrity made slides of part of the brains - which we found, all neatly labeled with the victim's names. And the rest, he was eating. There was a half-finished..."

"Don't," John cut him off. "Don't. I just had the best meal I've had in...I don't know. Don't ruin it for me."

"Sorry." They chatted for a while, then Greg left, promising to come back first thing in the morning.

A door opened at the end of the hall, and several orderlies appeared, wheeling a gurney and accompanied my two large men in suits. John got slowly to his feet.

"Doctor Watson?" one of the suited men said. "I'm Michael Ferguson. This is Hugh Dewalter. We'll be taking care of you both."

"Thank you. How is he?" John asked, watching as the orderlies wheeled the gurney into the room. He caught a brief glimpse of Sherlock, apparently asleep, before the door closed.

"He's asleep. He's been sedated, to give him a rest from the dystonia. The doctors say that the severity has decreased dramatically, and they're very hopeful that the duration will be short."

John blinked in surprise. "Doctor?"

Ferguson smiled, "Registered nurse, actually. I'm to assist you however necessary, both here and when he is released. And for now, I recommend that you get some sleep, Doctor."

"So when you said taking care of us..."

"I meant taking care of you," Ferguson answered. "The orderlies are done, it looks like. Come on, Doctor. When you wake up, I have a list for you to review, of people cleared to see Mister Holmes."

John let himself be led into the room, and took a moment to look at Sherlock's files and physically examine his lover himself. His shorn hair made him look younger, smaller. Fragile, in a way that John didn't think possible. He leaned over and kissed Sherlock gently, then climbed into his own bed. He was asleep before Ferguson closed the door.

#

Sherlock spent most of the next day asleep, which meant that John also spent most of the next day asleep, waking only to eat or to speak with the doctors when assured him that it appeared Sherlock would take no lasting damage from the high dosage of Largactil. Apparently, his years of drug abuse had saved his life, something John found amusing in its irony.

On the second morning, Lestrade came back to the hospital first thing, bringing breakfast for John, a dry-cleaning bag containing Sherlock's coat, and a smaller bag from a local bookstore. He also brought the sobering news that no signs had been found of Garrity, and that even Mycroft's people had not been able to find the man.

"How is that even possible?" John asked, taking a sip of coffee.

"I've no idea," Greg admitted. "Mycroft is besides himself. He wants the bastard's head on a platter."

"How is he, by the way?"

Greg smiled slightly. "He's better for knowing that Sherlock is safe. He called me last night. Said he couldn't sleep and wanted some company. We talked most of the night, I crashed in his guest room, and we had breakfast this morning."

John nodded, smiling. "Good. That's good."

"He said to tell you that he'll be by as soon as he can get away." Greg leaned back in his chair and looked at the sleeping Sherlock. "I'm going to need to get a statement at some point. When he wakes up, will you call..."

"...'m awake," Sherlock muttered.

John smiled, setting down his coffee and rising to go stand by the bed. "Welcome back, " he said softly as he leaned down to kiss Sherlock's forehead.

Sherlock grimaced and murmured, "Come now, Doctor. You can do better than that."

John laughed and kissed Sherlock's lips gently. "And I will. When you're better able to appreciate it. Do you feel up to giving a statement?"

Sherlock blinked, looking around owlishly, then raised one slightly shaky hand and ran it over his head. "He cut my hair?"

"You don't remember?" John asked.

"Not much. Not after the coffee. When did he cut my hair?"

"Start at the beginning, Sherlock," Greg said, and John noticed that he'd pulled out a notebook. "You arrived at Carew Close. And?"

"I knew I was going to be in trouble. I could smell the cats from the pavement. I was interested in his work, though. I wanted to see what he'd found in his research. I had an antihistamine in my coat... John, what happened to my coat?"

Greg smiled and pointed his pen at the dry cleaning bag hanging from a hook on the wall. "Anderson brushed it for evidence. Then he had it cleaned for you. Figured you wouldn't be able to wear it otherwise, not with all the cat dander on it."

Sherlock looked at the bag, then back at Lestrade. "Anderson did that?"

"He did. And I'll give you the rest once you finish giving your statement." Lestrade tapped his pen on his notebook. "You took the antihistamine. And then?"

"I went inside. He offered me coffee. He must have drugged it. I don't remember anything after that," Sherlock frowned, looking down at himself. "You have him, I trust?"

"No," John admitted. "The morning after, Greg and I came looking for you. We spooked him, and he ran. Mycroft will find him."

"How did you find me?" Sherlock asked.

Greg smiled broadly and put his notebook away. "Your doctor does an excellent impression of you. Without the nastiness at a crime scene, I might add. Now, before I forget, I have some things for you." He picked up the bookstore bag and set it on the bed. "The books are from Sally. She said to tell you that she asked the cashier for the books that everyone else sends back for being too difficult. She also said it might keep you busy for ten minutes. She hopes. And that if you want she'll find more. The box is from all of us."

Sherlock tipped the bag out, spilling puzzle books over his lap and sniffing at the titles. "Sudoku? Really?" He picked up the box and looked at the label, and John was amazed to see the surprise on Sherlock's face, "Lestrade!"

"We all went in on it. Open it." Sherlock opened the flat white box, and took out a deep blue scarf, subtly patterned with darker blue stripes.

"That's lovely," John said, reaching out to touch the soft wool.

"Your old one was ruined, and we couldn't have our consulting detective running around without his scarf. So we got you a new one." Greg stood up and shoved his hands in his pockets. "You hurry up and get well, Sherlock. You might not believe it, but we'd miss you if you weren't around."

"You're off?" John asked.

"Yeah, I've got to get back," Greg answered. "You set for the rest of the day? Mycroft said he'd take care of your dinner again."

"I'm fine. Go on. Thanks."

"Lestrade?" John turned to see Sherlock looking at them, the scarf spread over his slightly-trembling hands. The detective looked down, then back up. "Thank you. And... thank them, will you?"

Greg smiled, looked at John and said softly, "Who is rubbing off on whom?" John snorted, and Greg looked back at Sherlock. "I'll tell them. See you back at the Met once you're out."

He left, and John went and perched on the edge of Sherlock's bed. "You won't be here long, Sherlock. Another day or two, I think."

Sherlock nodded, then looked up, "Mobile. John, do you have your mobile?"

"Of course. You want it?"

"If it's not too much trouble."

"Want me to type for you?" John offered.

Sherlock looked down at his hands and grimaced. "No. No.. just dial, please. Mycroft's number. Then... if you wouldn't mind?"

John nodded, "Sure. I'll be right outside. Call when you're done." He pulled Mycroft's number up and pressed the call button, then passed the mobile to Sherlock and left. As he closed the door, he heard Sherlock's voice: "Yes. I am. Are you? Good. Would you stop by the flat? Yes."

"Everything all right, Doctor?" Michael asked.

John nodded. "We're fine. Thanks."

#

The rest of the day was punctuated by tests and brief visits from Mike, Mrs. Hudson and Molly. Molly brought with her reports on the seven bodies found in the basement, which Sherlock immediately started to read through.

"Why these seven?" he asked the air. "And why me?"

"Opportunity?" John answered. "I haven't looked myself. What brought them together, other than Garrity was involved in their trials?"

"I doubt we'll know that," Mycroft said from the doorway. "Not until we find him."

"Still nothing?" John asked.

"We know that he left the country. We know that he took a flight to Paris, and from there to Istanbul. In Istanbul, his trail vanishes. We're investigating. And how do you feel, little brother?" he asked Sherlock.

For once, Sherlock answered without a hint of rancor, "Sick, still. And tired. Tired of the hospital. Tired of this..." he held one hand out, revealing the tremors. "I can't text. I can barely write. I want it to stop."

"It will, Sherlock," John said softly. "It just takes time." He sat down on the bed next to him, taking Sherlock's hand in his.

"I spoke to her," Mycroft said.

Sherlock looked at his brother sharply, "And?"

"She approves. She already approved, but now, very much so."

Sherlock smiled slightly. "Good. That's good."

"She's also coming back from Cannes. Should be home late tonight. She'll be here to see you tomorrow."

Sherlock took a quick breath through his nose. "If she feels she must."

"She does worry about you," Mycroft pointed out.

"It's about time I get to meet your mother," John interrupted. Sherlock smiled.

"Very good, John. Mycroft?"

"I have it. She asked me to stay."

"Very well," Sherlock looked up at John. "I intended to do this on our anniversary. I wanted to give you something to commemorate the date. So that you would never forget."

"Oh, I think you covered the never forget part quite nicely," John said tartly. "Next year, I think I'd prefer a quieter anniversary."

"I'd something else in mind, John," Sherlock said quietly. He held his hand out, and Mycroft handed him a flat box. A jeweler's box. John's mind stuttered to a stop.

"Sherlock..." he started to say, then stopped when he realized he couldn't think of anything else. Sherlock handed him the box and murmured, "Open it."

Opening it revealed an ID bracelet in silvery metal that had been polished to a high sheen. Just off of center, there was a small, twinkling diamond.

"I believe diamonds are traditional engagement gifts." Sherlock said. "I didn't think you would wear a ring."

"Oh," John breathed. Then, since it seemed like a good idea the first time, "Oh."

"Well done, little brother," Mycroft murmured.

"John?" John looked up to see Sherlock looking at him. "Are you going to say anything?" he asked.

John grinned, picked up the bracelet and put it on his right wrist. "Do I have to say anything else?"

"No," Sherlock answered with a smile. "But I would like to hear you say it."

"Yes, you utter git. Yes, I'll marry you." John leaned in and kissed Sherlock soundly, then held him for a long moment, their foreheads resting together. "I was terrified I was going to lose you," he said softly.

"I knew you'd find me."

They both jumped as Mycroft coughed, and John looked up to see his future brother-in-law watching the both of them. "There is something else," he said. He took something from his coat pocket and laid it on the bed. A pink mobile...

"This was in the same drawer as the box," he said. "There are four messages. I haven't looked."

John licked his lips and looked at Sherlock, who had gone stone-faced. Then he picked up the mobile and read the first message:

_Hello, sexy! Wanted you to know that you won't have to worry about Marcus Garrity any more. I took care of that little problem for you._

_The only one who gets to kill you is me. Eventually. Love to the dog. -M_

The next three messages were photos. One of Garrity, kneeling in a featureless room. One of Garrity's body in a pool of blood, his throat slit. And the last one - Moriarity himself, his hands red to the wrist, smiling at the camera and holding Garrity's head aloft.

"I thought he didn't like to get his hands dirty," John said, showing the last photo to Mycroft.

"Apparently, he makes exceptions," Mycroft said. "If you'll both excuse me, I need to see what I can do with this information." He left in a hurry, leaving John holding the mobile.

"How did he find out, I wonder?" John said aloud.

"There's a leak. Somewhere in the Met, or somewhere in Mycroft's office," Sherlock said. "More likely in Mycroft's office. The Met wouldn't have enough information."

John nodded, looking down at the mobile. "He asked me to work for him," he said.

"Mycroft did? And you answered?"

"Told him I'd think about it," John replied. He looked up to see Sherlock frowning at him. "I think I might take him up on the offer."

Sherlock opened his mouth, then closed it and said, "Why? You have a reason. Something more than money. But I can't... my mind is still fogged."

"I know, love. If there is a leak in Mycroft's office, how many people there could he trust? Really trust, to cover him? I can think of one, whatever her name is this week."

Sherlock nodded. "And so..."

"If I join his team, I can watch both of your backs. Protecting him, and protecting you. If Moriarity can get information out of Mycroft's office, he can get in as well. He probably has someone in there, someone close to your brother. Not too close, not enough to set off alarms. But close enough."

Sherlock leaned back and stared at the ceiling. "Your reasoning is sound. I understand. I don't like it..."

"Didn't think you would."

"But I can't argue with you," Sherlock finished. He closed his eyes and sighed. "I'm tired, John."

"Go to sleep, love. I'm here."

#

Hours later, John sat in the armchair next to Sherlock's bed, reading. Every so often, he pulled the pink mobile out of his pocket, looked at it, then put it back. Finally, he held the mobile up, tapped in a short message, sent it, and put the mobile away. Then he went back to watching his lover sleep.

#

In Istanbul, a young man looked curiously down at his mobile and at the notification for the incoming text. Two words, and initials. That was all.

_Thank you -JW_

He deleted the message, then Jim Moriarity threw his head back and laughed.

###

The bracelet: .?id=11583


End file.
